


In Silence, Surrender

by Shadaras



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: D/s undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/pseuds/Shadaras
Summary: A quiet moment in the Mirror Universe, onShenzhou. A piece of stolen time, for Michael and Ash to center themselves again together against everything they must pretend to be.





	In Silence, Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't exactly _for_ [saathi1013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013), but they've been encouraging me to write Michael wingfic since the second half of the show aired, so a thank-you to them for cheering me on intermittently. :D

Michael sat at a chair that could never have been Philippa’s, because she could smell the blood ingrained into it (even if it was just her imagination) and she had killed for the right to sit there. Even the light of _Shenzhou_ was not what Michael remembered. The layout was almost exactly the same, but the details—the harsh edges, the scars of violence—tripped her up. That was forgivable; that was aesthetic choices and mirrored the psychology of this universe. The light itself being redder, bloodier, never sat right; her eyes kept dilating further to try and catch every single speck of light, and never catching enough.

Her crew was attending to their stations, as they should be. Michael slowly glanced between them as she rolled her shoulders with Vulcan-trained slowness, wishing she could stretch the ache from her back. It would not do for the crew to realise how much of her attention was on the tight bindings over her wings by the end of the day; it would be seen as a sign of weakness, of her having grown soft chasing Lorca, of her having a vulnerability to exploit. _Soon_ , she promised herself, settling herself more firmly in the chair. The day-shift was almost over. Soon she would hand her seat over to an officer chosen for competence without ambition—a rare combination in this universe’s fleet—to command the night-shift. 

It wouldn’t do for them to realise she had wings at all, Michael added silently. That particular... mutation. Blessing. Curse. Whatever it was, the mycelial network had unlocked them, and now she lived with the consequences. Tilly and Culber had helped her find a way to hide them, though Culber had warned against her wearing the bindings too long. Each day in this universe, Michael almost wished—

She’d seen scars on Lorca’s back when she’d forced him to the ground in the interest of proving herself, and he’d just smiled when he’d seen hers after the first successful spore jump.

Her mind was wandering. Michael clicked her tongue. That wouldn’t do. Not here.

Michael rose as the clock ticked over to 1800. “Lieutenant Januzzi. You have the comm.”

She turned her back as he saluted her, breastplate ringing in the too-quiet bridge. The risk of ignoring the crew paid off in the skill and arrogance it demonstrated in this universe; only those who truly believed in theirself and their crew’s respect and fear could walk away like this, back exposed. Michael wasn’t sure what her counterpart had done to earn such obedience. Her own kill had cemented her place, however. For now. For long enough.

The lights dimmed further, casting glaring red shadows across _Shenzhou_ ’s corridors in a way that Michael associated with red alerts. Cynically, she supposed that wasn’t too far off; this universe’s baseline was a constant state of fear and aggression, which was similar to how Federation officers responded to red alerts. It wasn’t pleasant. Michael straightened her back and strode down the halls without the appearance of fear, until she reached the captain’s quarters. Her quarters. She still wasn’t used to that.

Her quarters were lit golden by the viewscreen-windows she kept open at all times she was present. She relaxed into the light as the door clicked closed (and locked) behind her.

The scuff of a footstep brought her back to full alert, and her hand fell to the knife at her hip as she turned.

Ash Tyler held up his empty hands, and Michael closed her eyes. He was wearing only the undersuit of the Terran fleet, not the breastplate. Nothing glinted on his body but his eyes, sad as ever.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said quietly.

“I understand,” Ash said

He came over to her, each step deliberate and distinct, as she unbuckled her belt and let it—and the weapons it held—drop to the floor with a defiant clatter. She opened her eyes when he was an arm’s reach away and nodded at his gesture towards her breastplate.

“It’s just—” Michael hissed as she fumbled a catch on her shirt. “The days feel longer here.”

Ash’s hand moved from the armor to her cheek, the briefest caress. “It’s hard enough being a grunt.” He swung the breastplate into its sections, lifted it up. “I can’t imagine what it’s like on the bridge.”

“An invisible knife pressed against my throat.” Michael pulled off her shirt and tossed it aside as Ash, more carefully, put the breastplate down.

The last layer stretched across her back felt tighter for the lack of other layers, and she could feel it, half-numbed from constriction but still there, as Ash brushed his fingers gently across the tips of her wings where they stuck out from beneath the binder. “Better than a visible one,” Ash said. His fingers slid along her sides to the catches holding it fast on the sides of her ribs. Carefully, one at a time starting from the bottom-most, he undid them.

Michael closed her eyes and groaned as the pressure released. Each inch of freedom was a gift, a breath of fresh air she hadn’t been able to take for twelve hours. The tightness in her chest, which she knew was partially fear, relaxed as she found room to stretch, as Ash’s fingers worked their way up until he let go of the final catch just under her armpits and she flung the binder away with the force of her wings spreading.

She could feel Ash right behind her, fingers tightening across her ribs and the seam of her bra as he kept himself in place. Just the same, her feathers impacting him hit her just as hard: softness and solidity and the presence of something, some _one_ , where she was most vulnerable. Michael leaned forward slightly to counterbalance herself, wingtips reaching just beyond where she could reach with her hands as she stretched them forward, then out, and finally lowered her aching wings slowly to her sides.

Ash kissed the nape of her neck. “To bed with you,” he murmured, laughter undercutting his words.

“Since when do you give the orders?” Michael asked, but she moved all the same. The promise of Ash’s hands on her back was too much to resist.

“Since you let me,” Ash retorted. He followed behind her, at a safer distance now that her wings were unfurled. She could still feel every movement he made near them, feathers and skin over-sensitive after such a long time bound. He ran his fingers through the downy feathers between her wings, and she shivered, almost falling as she removed her boots. He pressed his hand into her back, gently pushing her onto the silken sheets. “Since you need it more than I do.”

“Liar.” Michael let herself fall—glide—onto the bed, the movement slow and deliberate with her wings catching the still air. They were just as rich a brown as her skin, and gilded in the light. “I could still order you around.”

Ash began massaging her back and wings, working his fingers into the stiffened muscle. Michael didn’t bother muffling her groan. Everyone thought they were having sex. That Ash was just her playtoy, picked up and brought home because she needed some fun. They weren’t even entirely wrong, not with how Ash’s fingers stuttered at the sound.

“You will,” Ash said, after a minute that stretched long enough for Michael to have almost forgotten what he was responding to.

Michael hummed in pleasure as Ash’s hands worked into her feathers. Each one was so intoxicatingly sensitive. She couldn’t compare it to anything other than the way it felt for her nipples or vagina to be stimulated, or what it felt like to be kissed by someone who she cared about and who knew what they were doing. Pleasure that lit up her body if she let it, that warmed her from the core out, that made her arch into touch because she wanted more of that sensation.

She didn’t say anything to Ash as he slowly moved along her wings until they felt almost relaxed again. The way sensation rippled across her body was lovely; she didn’t need anything more than this.

Lazily, Michael drew her wings back and rolled onto her side, pulling Ash down beside her. He tucked himself under her chin, beard scratching slightly at her collarbones, and sighed, warm air rolling towards her breasts. She kissed the top of his head. “I wish you could stay.”

“They say enough already.” She could feel his words in her chest. He nuzzled closer to her, and added, quietly enough she almost didn’t hear, “I wish I could too.”

They stayed like that as _Shenzhou_ ’s lights slowly dimmed to night inside her cabin. Michael ran her hands through Ash’s hair, and let herself meditate to the steady pace of his breathing.

 _This assignment will not last forever,_ she promised herself, as she did every night. Her arms tightened slightly around Ash, and he wordlessly held her closer in response. _We will go home, and things will be simpler again there._

The night stretched long and lonely in front of her, but here, in this moment at least, there was peace, and light.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of my initial thoughts on Michael Burnham with wings here: [burning angel wings to dust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12391569)


End file.
